Our stories happen in a context, whenever and wherever they are set. And we build our context from our real life experiences. This week, I’m looking for extracts that contain the facts we use as settings for our tales. Please pop them into the comments and let us all enjoy them.
I write historicals, so I do a lot of research, around 10% of which makes its way onto the page. The following excerpt is from Paradise Regained, which is now on preorder in the Belle’s holiday box set, for release on 4 November. My story is set in the mountains north of Iran, in an entirely fictional hidden kingdom, at a time of great turmoil when one Iranian dynasty was giving way to another in bloody confusion. (No, I didn’t swear.) My fictional Mahzad’s grandfather is a relative of the historical old dynasty and has stolen the seal of a fictional saint, but such relics were and are treasured in real life.
Quickly, Mahzad and Gurban told him all that happened, breaking off frequently as yet another group of people came running to check that the arrivals were, indeed, their people and their kagan.
“So,” James said, once he had the gist of it, “the Khan has a secret, which he will tell only to me. Very well. Let us give him the opportunity.”
They did not have to look for the man. As they entered the palace, Garshasp Khan was waiting, wearing a huge smile.
“My son Jakob, you are come home. Welcome. Welcome. Peace be upon you.”
Mahzad crushed her irritation at her father’s arrogance, acting as if this were his own house and not hers and James’s. James took the greeting with equanimity, returning the formal greeting. “Peace be upon you, Excellency. We are blessed that you have chosen to grace our house.”
“You will say so.” Garshasp chortled. “You will say so indeed. I have brought you a treasure, Jakob.”
James said nothing more but led the way into a chamber off the main hall, turning everyone away except Mahzad, Gurban, and Garshasp.
James wasted no time, cutting straight to the point with Western directness. “I took from you a treasure, excellency, and for her sake you are always welcome here, but you have also brought trouble to my gates. I am told you have promised me an explanation.”
“And you shall have it. I took it from its hiding place the moment I knew you were here. Look, my son. Look.”
Mahzad leant forward to see the small gold item her father pulled from his robes. James plucked it from Garshasp’s palm and held it up so that she and Gurban could see.
“A seal stamp?” Gurban asked.
“The inscription reads ‘Abu Rahman ul Hafi,” Mahzad said. She turned to look at her father aghast.
“Abu Rahman ul Hafi?” James closed his fingers over the seal, hiding it from view. “The saint whose shrine is in Asadiyeh?” He whistled low and long. “No wonder the Qajar are at my gates.”
Garshasp smiled broadly. “A treasure, as I told you, and one you can use to buy the safety of my daughter and my grandsons.”
Mahzad rounded on the old fool. “We were safe until you brought them on us.”
The old man looked down his long nose at her. “Think you the Qajar would leave any of my blood alive? No. The purge is underway even as we speak. And you, you ungrateful woman, are the last of my children. Your sons are the only hope of my line.”
She would have retorted, but James cut through with quiet authority. “You will address Mahzad with respect, excellency. She is no longer merely your daughter. She is the katan of this valley, a position her merits won for her. Beyond that, she is, as you have pointed out, my wife and the mother of my sons and daughters.”
“Daughters!” Garshasp growled. “Wait till your own are grown and then talk to me of daughters. Hah! I have given you the seal, Jakob. Use it as you will, and the rest of the goods I brought with me are for you and your sons, though half the value was in the slaves, which this wife of yours declared free. You will excuse me. This old man needs to rest.” He turned and strode out, though his steps faltered as he passed through the doorway.
I like that very much — it gives a really good flavour of the atmosphere without more detail than is required. 😀
As you know, my fiction is all based on “the real world” (real characters, real locations, real events, etc etc). Here’s a short bit from the WIP (and apologies if I’ve shared it before) where my MC goes to visit his family’s grave in Westminster Abbey. I’ve been to the same location many times myself (often in similar weather conditions!) and the description owes a lot to my own impressions. You can see the monument described here: https://www.westminster-abbey.org/abbey-commemorations/commemorations/william-pitt-and-family/.
***
Even with the benefit of Bradford’s umbrella, the rain had seeped through the dense wool of John’s scarlet coat by the time he had walked the hundred yards from the carriage to step through the wooden door into Westminster Abbey’s North Transept. The bustle and noise of the narrow street, just a stone’s throw from the crowded expanse of Old Palace Yard, gave way to a calm that was perfectly still and seemed to form part of the ancient stones themselves. It was so quiet he could hear Carey’s teeth chattering.
The dim light cut weakly through the air, filtered through the large rose window above the entrance. Hulking monuments loomed out of the shadows. John barely glanced at them, all except one, unusually large, and pyramid-shaped in design. At the base sat Britannia, resting mournfully against her trident, flanked by figures representing Patience and Fortitude. At the summit a figure reached one arm through the gloom, caught in oratorical pose. John pointed it out to his aides. ‘My father.’
Carey tilted his head back and squinted up through the thick lenses of his spectacles. ‘You look powerfully like him, my lord.’
‘It is not the best likeness,’ John remarked, awkwardly. He always felt odd standing before this statue to a man he had known, and loved, so well. There was something distancing in the way his father stretched forth his hand, as though to hold away John’s emotion – an emotion had no place here, where statesmen were buried and where patriotic prostration might find a role at the feet of these great monuments, but where personal grief had little place.
Poor John. This is a perfect balance of real and imagined, I think. You take us into John’s feelings through the sensory details you have chosen to present.